


Emily, Maybe

by DHW



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Community: giles-shorts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 07:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10849293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: There must always be a Slayer.





	Emily, Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> **Setting:** Early Series 6.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Not mine (which is probably for the best, really).

Old Mrs Ripley picked her way through the Sunday shoppers, hand clutching the brim of her hat, granddaughter in tow. The sun was shining but the wind was fierce, whistling through the gaps and ginnels that branched out from the bustling high street. 

“Come on, Emily,” said Mrs Ripley, the grip on her hat tightening. “Don’t dawdle so.” 

But the girl, Emily, was not listening. She had just turned sixteen. Her hair was black, her eyes blue, and there was a significant power to her, despite her small stature. One that had not been there the previous year, when she had been fifteen and her dreams did not repeat themselves. In her hand was a business card, small and off-white.

It read:

_**Dr. Rupert Giles.** _

_Occult Investigations and Supernatural Solutions._

_Reasonable Rates._

_125B, Nelson Street, Bath. BA1_

_Enquire Within._

“Show me,” said her Grandmother, peering over her shoulder, aged eyes squinting as she read. “Nonsense. Utter nonsense.”

“But…” replied Emily, staring down at the words.

She could feel the draw of the card, the way it pulled and tugged, willing her to turn left down the alleyway that began with an ‘N’. It almost felt like destiny.

“No ‘buts’, Emily,” said Mrs Ripley as she grabbed her granddaughter’s hand, her gaze stern. “We’re late. Now come along.”

The wind picked up, as if on cue, battering the pair as they made their winding way towards the Church with the tolling bells, trying to change their path. But it did no good. And, as they reached the wrought iron gates of St. John’s, it gave one last gust, succeeding only in plucking the business card from the young girl’s fingers. 

“Silly girl,” her Grandmother muttered. 

Emily watched as the card blew away, coasting through the streets on the fierce spring wind.


End file.
